


Lit 101

by Wanderer



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Friendship/Love, Fun, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese finds that dead languages can be surprisingly sexy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lit 101

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Lit 101 (Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774324) by [lzqsk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lzqsk/pseuds/lzqsk)



> Just a fun, smutty little thing I wrote.

 

If John teases him too much, Harold sometimes threatens him with heinous things when they’re in bed.  Because he may be “Harold” there, but he hasn’t left Mr. Finch behind completely.  John doesn't mind.  Truth to be told, he _likes_ it.  He's always enjoyed Harold's prickliness, his eccentricities and utter uniqueness, and admired his twisty brilliance.  Besides, though John's never told him so, what Finch considers awful punishment is so amusing compared to what he once routinely endured in the CIA, that sometimes he drives Harold crazy just for the fun of hearing his version of dire threats. 

One night, when John has brought him to the brink of orgasm for the second time, then backed off again, Harold snaps, “I swear… if you don’t let me –“

John lifts his head from between Harold’s legs.  “Let you what, Harold?” He strokes the inside of his lover's thigh with apparent wide-eyed innocence, while secretly hoping to maneuver Harold into talking dirty.

Finch’s glare isn’t merely knowing, it's _withering_.  “You know… perfectly well wh– _ohhh!_ ” his complaint ends in a surprised yelp, when John bends to suck hotly at the inside of his thigh, with just a hint of teeth.  A mock bite, for seeing through his little ruse and refusing to play along.

Delicious and arousing though his caress is, it's still over too quickly to get Harold off.  Of course.  John would never make a rookie mistake like that.  He looks up at Harold again, unable to pretend innocence this time, because he's grinning too hard.  “Hmm? You were saying?”  He ups the ante a bit, makes it hard for Harold to answer by slipping a finger inside of him, and stroking his cock firmly with his other hand.  But he knows Harold likes a challenge, and despite the erotic distractions, Finch doesn't disappoint. 

“I – I’ll read Catullus – to you,” Harold gasps, torn between pleasure and voicing his threat.  “In – in the original – oh God! – _Latin_!”

John had bent to slowly, teasingly suck the head of Harold’s cock.  At that, he looks up and grins.  “Dirty Roman… love poems?” he smirks, more than a little breathless himself.  “That’s a new one.”  He thrusts against the sheets a bit, breathless just thinking of that, not wanting to come yet but getting so close...  He's torn between asking Finch how he knows those poems, and taking him up on what Harold thinks is a threat, but John sees as an offer.  “Bring 'em on.  _Any time_ , Harold,” he purrs.  It's meant as a challenge.  Still, John can't help making it sound flirty by lowering his voice and smirking up at Finch through lowered eyelashes.  Harold's always had that effect on him.

Harold rolls his eyes so violently, it’s a wonder they stay in his head.  “You,” he pants, “are quite... _incorrigible,_ Mr. Reese – mmm!“ he trails off in a moan, his eyes rolling back for a different reason, his reprimand hijacked by pleasure as John sucks his cock in again, humming a bit.  Or maybe he's laughing.  Either way, the vibration around his cock is so exquisite that Harold has to fight not to come.  But he holds back, because part of him loves drawing this out as much as John does.  Still, he can't keep from moaning.  Loudly.  Oh well.  He can always claim he was groaning in protest, later.

John lets him go for a second, grinning delightedly at Harold's helpless noises.   “I aim to please, Mr. Finch.”  It's both a joke and the absolute truth.  He's always loved teasing Harold; but if Finch didn't love it just as much, he wouldn't do it.  John's always tried to please Harold.

Another eye roll.  “You – aim -- to _torture_.”  Harold somehow manages to make his desperately turned-on panting sound distinctly grumpy.  And John knows just how bad he has it, because he even finds that endearing, God help him.

He grins even wider.  “Well.  That too.”  Before Harold can find the breath to threaten him again, John suddenly lowers his head and takes his cock in deep, all the way to the back of his throat.  Harold groans and John shivers with pleasure at the sound, his own arousal almost overwhelming.  But he draws back at the last instant again, releasing Harold just when his thighs tremble and he's about to come. 

“Aargh!”  Harold’s hands fist in the sheets.  “I _swear_ ,” he groans, or was that a whimper?  “If you don't -- finish this,” he glares at John, primly refusing to indulge in filthy language just to spite him, “I will...” 

Harold falters for a second, breathing hard and finally so desperately aroused and frustrated that he's unable to think of another threat awful enough to pay John back properly for this last bit of teasing.

At that, John realizes it's time to finish this.  He's had his fun, but he's reached the limits of Harold's patience now; he doesn't want to make him angry and spoil the moment.  Besides, he loves seeing Harold come, loves knowing he gave him that much pleasure.  Time to give Harold what he wants, and what John wants, too. 

Heart pounding, John suddenly slips another finger into Harold and scissors them, hitting Harold’s prostate while he takes his cock in deep, right to the back of his throat again, swallowing hard at the same time.  He moans with the dark, fierce joy of both devouring and pleasing Harold like that at the same time, with both his mouth and his hands.  Harold gasps and comes at long last, crying out with the intensity of it.

Feeling that and tasting him gets John off, too.  He closes his eyes, swallows it all and groans deep in his throat, loving it, writhing as he comes so hard that he feels it all the way down to his toes.

He finally collapses beside Harold, breathless and sated.  He stretches, feeling pleasantly spoiled and sybaritic panting beside his billionaire lover on the expensive, absurdly high thread-count sheets Finch bought for his enormous bed.  John's bed is a thing of beauty, with a gorgeous oak headboard and a mattress so huge that there's plenty of room for even a tall man like him to roll around in. 

But the best thing about his marvelous bed has always been having Harold in it.

Harold’s quiet now, his eyes closed, his chest still heaving.  John takes that as a win, and grins to himself.  He loves reducing Harold to a breathless, wrung-out heap like this.  He'd do it all day, every day if Harold would let him, and the numbers didn't interfere.  But they do all too often, so John savors their rare private moments.  They're like the hundred-year-old Scotch John bought, which they sometimes sip after they save a number, or his gigantic bed; private luxuries he shares only with Harold.  

With ecstasy still shivering through him, he reaches out to stroke Harold's arm and shoulder, just for the pleasure of continuing to touch him.  Then while Harold's still recovering, he slips out of bed, brings back a damp washcloth from his bathroom, and gently cleans them both off. 

When he's done, Harold catches his hand and kisses it gently. “Thank you, John,” he says softly, and John knows it's not for the clean-up he just did.

Bemused and still breathing fast, he thinks, _Aww, Harold_.  Who knew that a sharp-tongued, reclusive computer genius would have such soft skin?  Or a fetish for Sencha green tea and scarred ex-operatives?  Or such a warm heart, underneath it all. 

He slips back into bed and across the sheets, snuggling close so he can put an arm around Harold.  _I love you so much_ , he thinks, smiling fondly at him.  But then, being John, he can't resist tipping his head to murmur in Harold's ear, “So.  Along with all the literary classics in the Library, I assume there's a section somewhere on ancient porn, in the original Latin and Greek?  That's very... kinky of you, Harold.”  He purrs that at his lover in his throatiest whisper, because...well.  He just can't stop himself, really.

Harold stretches a little, clearly still feeling blissful himself, and shoots John a sly little smile of his own.  “I believe I warned you that the Library represents the decline of Western civilization, John,” he answers wryly.

While John is still laughing, Harold pulls him into his arms, settling his sleek, dark head on his chest.  He strokes John's hair gently, tenderly for a long while, until he can feel him drifting off to sleep.  Then he says, with deceptive mildness, “I wasn't kidding about the Catullus, you know.”

“Hmm,” John murmurs, shivering with what Finch sadly suspects is not fear, but anticipation.  “I've got the only lover in New York who can talk dirty in dead languages.  _Very sexy,_ ” he rumbles, writhing a bit against Harold, just to prove it.

Harold bursts out laughing, and grabs John's slyly straying hands.  “Go to _sleep_ ,” he orders, his voice a familiar blend of fondness and exasperation.

“But...Catullus,” John whispers dreamily a few minutes later, on the edge of sleep.  “In the...original... _Latin_...”  His fingers twitch longingly on Harold's skin.

Harold shakes his head, smiling because he knows it’s safe -- John's eyes are closed, so he won't see it.  John’s absolutely impossible as it is, and though Harold wouldn't have it any other way, it simply wouldn't do to be seen openly encouraging him, either.  So he waits until John's breathing evens out into a slow, sleeping rhythm before kissing the top of his mischievous, incorrigible, deeply loved head and whispering, “Sweet dreams, _amor meus_.”

John smiles to himself secretly. _I heard that_...

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Amor meus" is Latin for "my love"


End file.
